Then she looked over the top of her glasses at my father.
“You may speak.”
My father stood up slowly.
He buttoned his jacket. The middle button. His fingers were steady.
Ezoic
Then he turned toward Brian.
Ezoic
Brian wouldn’t look at him. He stared down at the table again, at a legal pad covered in his lawyer’s notes, like the notes might save him.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
My father was the calmest person I knew. In my whole life, I had never once heard him raise his voice. Not when I crashed his truck at seventeen. Not when my mother died. Not when the furnace exploded in our basement and he had to put out the fire with a garden hose. He didn’t threaten people. He didn’t make scenes.
Yet Brian suddenly looked like a man who wished with his whole heart that my father had stayed home.
